


West Never Changes

by NervousOtaku



Category: Original Work
Genre: Post-Apocalypse, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:14:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27494065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NervousOtaku/pseuds/NervousOtaku
Summary: The world ended years ago, long before she was born, and now Fixit has found a box she can't help but open.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 1





	West Never Changes

**Author's Note:**

> I am not a super religious person. I'm a pagan witch whose patrons are Krampus and Loki, and I occasionally leave offerings up to my house-spirits. All my knowledge of the bible and the themes in it comes from a class I had years and years ago in high school where we briefly covered 'world' religion (read as the Abrahamic religions). I wrote this story two years ago for fiction class.

Fixit believed the end of the world must’ve been tragic. Surely it must’ve. The world was everything, if the occupants suddenly found it crumbling around them then it must’ve been devastating.

But in the end, she supposed she would never know. The world had ended long ago, after all, she just happened to have been born after the fact. Her and all the other survivors.

Some days, Fixit struggled to remember who had taught her all she knew. She could remember a crew of people, all big and burly, showing her how to make a generator out of scrap, how to turn a single piece of scrap into an emergency raft, how to turn an algae bloom into food. But they had all vanished one day, swept away in a storm, and only she had been left. So she made do, navigating the waves and storms and algae and ice on her own.

The burly people had never told her how the world ended exactly. But apparently there used to be less water. More land. And the land wasn’t all barren sand and stone, decorated with the skeletons of structures long forgotten. It had been green, covered with plants like the kelp that grew under the waves. And there had been more people, and four seasons that all affected the world differently, and more creatures than the treacherous insects and hungry monsters of the sea. Fewer storms, warmer air, a colder sun.

Fixit daydreamed sometimes, when she dropped anchor and made food. What must’ve happened to end the world so suddenly, so drastically, to change it so much. It must’ve been something catastrophic, in the blink of an eye, that was unlike anything she had ever seen or experienced before.

She was drawn out of her thoughts by Muck yanking on her hair, nipping her shoulder.

“Yeah yeah…” she mumbled, digging out a ladleful of soup and spilling it on the deck. Muck eagerly melted off her back and began to eat. He tended to prefer his food raw, since he was just a sea-creature. But Fixit got sick if she ate food raw. The burly people had explained why that was to her, but it had never been super relevant. So long as she knew to cook her food before eating it, it didn’t matter.

Muck had almost been food. Or the other way around, she had almost been Muck’s food.

Eight-arms were tricky creatures that came in all sorts of sizes. They could be small enough to fit in Fixit’s hand, perfect for eating once they’d been boiled, or they could be large enough to crawl onto the boat and tear things apart as they dragged it under the water. Fixit had yet to encounter one that large personally, but the burly people had instilled the fear long before getting swept away. Eight-arms could change color, spit black water, and break bones. They were smart, and could open doors and boxes. Fixit had encountered Muck while trying to harvest an algae bloom, mistaking him for a wad of kelp. She didn’t remember exactly how they had come to be shipmates, but he was one arm down from their fight.

Right now, the two of them were just taking advantage of a break in the storms. The sun was still hidden behind the clouds, so it wasn’t too blinding out, wasn’t too hot, but the wind was slower, and the rain was gone. So they were on the deck, eating soup—algae and fish and shell-meat. There was probably grit in the shell-meat, and that would grind on Fixit’s teeth and scrape at her tongue, but the change in flavor from algae and fish would be welcome. Even the dirt.

Muck had just about finished licking up his portion of soup from the deck, and was squelching back towards his bucket. Fixit blew carefully on the ladle before sipping at the soup. As she had expected, there was dirt in the shell-meat. She could already taste it. But if she was picky, she’d have to make more, and that would deplete what food she had further. And who knew when she’d find and catch more. She’d have to make do, and the grit was perfectly welcome because of that. But grit and dirt aside, it tasted ready to eat. As Muck settled into his bucket full of water, Fixit began to eat.

The boat was going to need parts soon, she thought as she ate. She could fix things in her sleep, but only if she had the things to do it with. So she was going to have hope she encountered a friendly ship to trade with, or a wreck. A wreck might be preferable, since it was all up to chance if she would even be able to understand another ship’s occupants. And if any occupied ships she encountered were unfriendly, Fixit only had so much confidence in her ability to defend herself. There was only one of her, so she couldn’t fend attackers off and steer the boat away all at once. At least two people were needed for that, and Muck was smart but he wasn’t a person.

Fixit sighed as she finished the soup, licking her lips as she looked to the sky. Judging by the clouds and the wind, she probably had another hour before the storms returned. She should weigh anchor and start searching for wrecks. With that in mind, she filled a bucket with water and threw it in the generator, giving the winch a kick to encourage it to work. She took a moment to secure Muck’s bucket and all other loose objects, then weighed anchor and moved to the wheel.

As she sailed, Fixit realized the compass was wavering. Which was odd. It was the one thing on the ship that was always reliable, always right, never broken. She just about worshipped the compass, pointing the way west no matter what. But right now it was wobbling port, bouncing between west and something else.

Fear and anger settled in even mixture. Without the compass, Fixit got the feeling she’d be fine, it wasn’t like she used it all that much, but the idea of the unbreakable compass breaking was terrifying. After that, though, curiosity took over. What could be causing it to do that? Was it something she could use? Something she could strip down for parts and make her boat better?

Making up her mind, Fixit followed the compass’s new orientation.

Rocks began to greet her, towering tall and coated in dribbling ice. She had to plot a careful course around them, taking repeated note of where the bottom was. The water was shallower here, littered with tall wooden things that bore greenery of some sort on their prongs. They got thicker the further she went, the compass now pointing devoutly forward instead of flickering west every so often. The air felt and smelled different here.

Before too long, Fixit couldn’t go any further. The boat had run aground.

She chewed her lip, rocking back and forth on her heels. She wanted to know. She wanted to know very badly. The weird plants and the tall rocks were only furthering her curiosity.

Mind made up, Fixit dropped anchor and began to gather her scrap and salvage tools. Muck crawled out of his bucket, clicking his beak as he grabbed onto her legs and climbed to her waist. He seemed vaguely distressed, the colors of his skin fluttering. But Fixit couldn’t pay it too much mind, focused on the task at hand. She was too busy tying off a rope, a guideline back to the boat if she needed it. The eight-arms clung to her as she jumped off the boat, and Fixit felt his beak sharp in her armpit.

The water was shallow, only coming up to her waist. The ground under her feet was solid stone, faded black in color. There were scuffed-up yellow markings on it. Gulping in anticipation, Fixit began to walk, pushing through the weird wooden plants as she waded through the water. Muck clung to her in a way he’d never done before, not even when they first met and he attacked her, so she spared a moment to pat his fleshy head.

The plants got thicker and thicker, the water growing so shallow that Fixit found she wasn’t even in it anymore. She was following a path of black and yellow stone towards a crumbling, rusting structure. There were woven metal screens stabbed into the ground around it, decorated with rusted plates that once must’ve been important. Fixit wondered what they were, but was drawn towards the structure they surrounded.

The wind was kicking up again, she noticed idly as she pried open the structure door. The storm would be back soon.

Soon, soon, she told herself, drawn into the dark structure. Holes in the walls and ceiling let in light, enough to illuminate the place, but not to make it bright. Despite that, Fixit could see the door opposite her. Could see the bones on the floor.

She needed to leave. To get out of here. Something bad had happened here, and if she was out when the storm arrived then she would surely die. The rain would punch holes in her skin, the wind would tear her to shreds, the huge waves would drown her. She needed to get back to her boat and prepare. Muck was biting her by this point, his arms holding her so tight she was going to be covered in little circle bruises. He was upset. Was scared. There was blood running down her ribs, soaking her shirt.

Fixit couldn’t keep herself from advancing.

She just wanted to see. Just wanted to understand. It wouldn’t hurt to look. Just a quick look and then she’d get back to the boat and weather out the storm.

Digging out her jar of blue algae, Fixit gave it a violent shake and crossed the floor. The algae began to glow, bright enough that she could see in the shadows of the other door, see the steps leading down. Despite the churning of her gut and the stinging pain of Muck’s beak, she began to follow them. She wanted to know. She wanted to see.

It felt like hours, but also like no time at all, as she walked. She had to keep shaking the algae jar to make sure she could see, wouldn’t trip or fall on a broken or missing step. Muck was curling even further around her, his color flickering and pulsing to match her skin now and then. Matching her skin, her shirt, even just turning full black. The panic he was going through didn’t seem to reach Fixit, though. She was registering that something was wrong, and that in all honesty she should probably be running, returning to her boat, but it wasn’t clicking.

“Just a little more,” she murmured, voice echoing and muffled by the shadows all at once, “Just a little more and then we’ll leave.”

Finally, she came to the bottom of the stairs. As her feet touched the cold, dusty floor, a loud splat sounded, followed by dripping. Pausing in confusion, Fixit turned her head. The stairs directly behind her were coated in liquid black, dribbling down to pool around her feet. Muck’s terror had pushed him to spit up the false fuel eight-arms would use to escape predators. Dimly, Fixit knew she should heed the warning. But that pull, that need to know, it was so much stronger now, all but killing her.

She had to see, had to know.

Leaving sticky black footprints behind, Fixit advanced into the darkness, raising the blue-filled jar above her head to reach farther. Ahead of her, she could see a box of some sort. A large chest made of stone, it looked like, shut with locks and decorated with all sorts of pictures. Approaching it, Fixit gnawed at her lip thoughtfully. The storm would be coming back soon, and she should get back to the boat. But she wanted very badly to see what was in this chest. But it would take time to open all the locks. Did she have the time to do that, to spare, to waste?

Muck fell away from her with a sickly plop, and the loss of his weight drove her forward. She was a fast worker, she told herself. She could pop the chest open, take a look, then leave and be back on board before the storm hit.

She set the jar on top of the chest, pulling out her tools so she could work. Some of these locks looked like all they needed was a good whack from her hammer. Others would take some sawing. A few would require delicate work with picks and needles. At least one would require some torch-work.

Behind her, Fixit could hear Muck squelching away, returning to the stairs. But she couldn’t tear herself away from the work on the chest. She was busy cycling between tools, only taking a moment here and there to shake the jar. Keep everything lit so she could see as she worked. Worked quickly and deftly, removing locks here and there. The need to get it open was oppressive, made her want to puke, but if she puked then she lost food, lost time. Muck was squelching, splashing. He must’ve been at the stairs already. Up above, Fixit could hear the wind beginning to howl and scream. It would start to rain soon, but she was almost done.

A scraping sounded.

Not her, not Muck. Muck was advancing up the stairs, the color of stone, dragging smears of black behind him. Her tools had been clinking, nothing in any place able to make a scraping noise.

For a brief second, Fixit came to her senses. For a brief second, she was overwhelmed by fear, her head aching with it and her breath cutting short. Her hands shook, and she didn’t think the wetness on her legs was just blood and seawater and eight-arm spit. For a brief second, Fixit wondered what the hell she was doing here, in this strange place, opening up a mystery box, instead of safe on her boat and curled up in her hammock.

But then the second passed, and she was back to prying open and off various locks, coming closer and closer to getting them all off. She became feverish, just about, breath escaping in hot puffs of air. The light from the jar was dying again, but Fixit was on the last lock. She didn’t need the light.

The second she’d levered the last lock off, molten metal and scorched plastic, the lid of the chest shot off, slamming against the wall and breaking into pieces. The jar shattered, blue algae splattered everywhere and brighter than ever before, illuminating everything as something rose out of the box.

That overwhelming fear returned to Fixit, her mind clear once again, as she realized that it wasn’t something coming out of the box. Dark eyes stared down at her, white teeth bared in a way that reminded her of the enormous fang-fishes in the sea, wild hair seeming to float in the air as if it were water.

Someone stood over her, looking at her the way she looked at her food reserves, and Fixit bolted. She left her tools scattered around and made for the stairs, followed the rope laid out behind her. She almost tripped on Muck, the eight-arms slippery and hidden. He grabbed onto her legs, slowing her down as he hauled himself up her torso once more. Fixit ignored that, focused on running, getting away.

But she could hear how slow she was in comparison to the stranger giving chase. The stairs seemed much longer going up than they had going down, and she kept tripping in the shadows, scraping her hands and elbows, losing ground. Behind and below, she could hear the long strides, the even breaths, the low, deep, unnerving chuckle.

She grabbed onto the rope, thanking the memory of the burly people, and used that to steady herself as she ran, serve as her guide so she could close her eyes against the pulsing pain behind her eyes, ringing in her ears. It hurt, and the air felt different, and she couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, couldn’t focus. She needed to get away, get away, fast, faster, now, quickly.

But she wasn’t fast enough. Just as she reached the door above, the wind screaming beyond, a hand grabbed her ankle. Fixit screamed, trying to kick the stranger away and run. She would take dying to the storm over whatever mystery would happen here. If she could just break free and get out of the stairs, then it was a flat dash to the outside of the structure. But she wasn’t strong enough, and even Muck screamed as Fixit was dragged backwards, swung into the air. The world inverted, and it took everything she had not to puke as she was dangled upside-down. It wasn’t like when the boat pitched and rolled in rough seas, and she lost all sense of up and down. This was different, this was overwhelmingly different, overwhelmingly terrifying, and Fixit could feel it when she pissed herself this time.

The stranger was huge. Massive. He seemed to fill up the entire stairwell, but all his proportions were perfect. He wasn’t really that big, logically, not if he’d fit into that chest earlier. But somehow he seemed to take up all the space and leave none empty. Even in the dark, Fixit could make out every detail about him, and could just about feel as it was stamped into her memory. She could see his dark eyes shining, his curly brown hair and beard, his pure white teeth and powerful build. She could see the crows feet around his eyes, could feel the calluses on the hand holding her ankle. Everything about him seemed to ooze into her mind, and Fixit felt like her head was going to burst as Muck squeezed her so tight she couldn’t breathe.

“So,” the man said calmly, “I see the world has changed while I was locked away.”

Fixit could feel the timbre of his voice in her bones, the breath of it in her hair. It rang and reverberated, held way too much presence for something as simple as a voice. Muck was biting her again, blood dripping down between her shoulder blades and neck, getting caught in her hair. He was holding her so tight, she was going to be covered in little circular bruises.

“Tell me your name.” the man ordered.

Despite the nausea threatening to overwhelm her, Fixit felt her chest and throat moving to obey. Without her willing it, her mouth answered, “Fixit.”

“Fixit… as in… oh, that’s precious. That’s just precious. I need to see what kind of world has children named Fixit with pet octopi.” the man declared with a snort.

As he flipped her rightside up and cradled her to his chest, Fixit realized she couldn’t hear the wind anymore. Either the ringing in her ears was drowning it out, or the storm was gone. But she couldn’t see the storm being gone.

Yet as the man carried her out of the structure, she was forced to gasp.

The storm was gone. The wind was settled at a sweet breeze, and all the clouds were gone. But despite the lack of cloud cover, the sun wasn’t scorching, didn’t blind her even when she wasn’t looking. It felt pleasantly warm, tingling on her skin and drying all the various fluids she was soaked in. Without the layer of clouds blotting out the light, everything looked so much more vibrant, brilliant blues and greens, shocking yellows and deep blacks and browns. It was almost too much for Fixit.

“Flooded again, I see. Not my fault, this time.” the man commented idly, setting her on her feet.

“Wha…?” she mumbled in confusion, Muck making an unhappy clicking noise.

“Aah, yes. I imagine I have been gone for quite a while. You may call me Yosef,” the stranger grinned, “Why don’t you show me how you got here, Fixit?”

His voice was compelling, she realized as she began to walk. He was speaking, and she was doing as he said. She wondered if he had been calling out while in the chest. That might explain why she had felt the need to come here, why she had felt the need to ignore the brewing storm before.

Hand over hand, she followed the rope she had left behind, leading the stranger to her boat. Yosef, he said his name was. It was such a weird name. He had reacted like hers was weird, but at least ‘Fixit’ had some meaning. ‘Muck’ had meaning. Names needed meaning, and Fixit couldn’t figure out anything that ‘Yosef’ could mean.

Before too long, they were standing at the edge of the water, where her boat was anchored.

“Oh goodness. Tell me it’s named _Jonah._ It needs to be named _Jonah._ Or _Nineveh._ ” Yosef said, sounding like he was struggling not to laugh.

“It… doesn’t have a name…?” Fixit mumbled in confusion, wading into the water.

“It does now,” Yosef declared, and she squawked as he scooped her up, “It’s now named _Jonah._ You don’t get it, but I think it’s funny.”

Muck curled around her, matching the color of her flesh as he tried to shrink away from Yosef’s touch. Fixit wished she could do the same, pointedly avoiding looking at his face. This led her to look down, and she was forced to gasp in shock.

Yosef was walking on the surface of the water. His feet left ripples behind, little drops splashing here or there, but he was walking on the water. Fixit knew she was small in comparison to him, the ease with which he picked her up only proved that. But the water around her boat came up to her waist, and Yosef was standing on top of it as if it was solid ground. He jumped, and just like that they were on the boat.

“I recall you leaving some tools behind. Anything important?” Yosef hummed as he put her down.

“I…” Fixit stammered, searching her memory. She had, hadn’t she? All her tools had been abandoned on the floor when she’d run from Yosef. “… Yes…”

Yosef grinned, making some gesture with his hand. Fixit stumbled back in shock when her tools appeared in his hand. “I believe that’s all of them. Shall we be off, then?”

Muck melted off her back, retreating to his bucket and changing to match the color of the deck. Fixit wished she could do similar, but she got the feeling Yosef would just pick her up again. Or crush her. It would be easy for him, she could tell. For Yosef to kill her, it would be as easy as her swatting the gnats that bit her ears. An unblinking, thoughtless, almost careless flick of the wrist before continuing on.

“I…” Fixit choked out. “The compass… it’s broken…”

“Hm?”

Yosef moved past her, to the wheel, and looked at the compass. Peering around him, Fixit felt her jaw drop. The needle was spinning so fast it was just a colored blur.

“Oh, don’t worry, that’s normal. My presence tends to do that.” Yosef shrugged. “Which way were you headed before?”

Her jaw worked uselessly for a moment. She wanted to scream. Wanted to question him, or order him off her boat. But her throat wasn’t cooperating, and Fixit croaked, “West…”

Yosef smiled, stretching an arm out to point. “West is that way. I prefer east, though. The sun isn’t as in your eyes if you travel east.”

Fixit didn’t move, staring at him with wide eyes.

He tipped his head as if curious. She wondered if that was how she looked when considering odds and ends found in wrecks. It was a horrible feeling, being scrutinized for use like a piece of junk.

Slowly, he began to smile again. It was softer this time. Less predatory. While he still seemed huge and far too present, taking up too much space, Yosef suddenly no longer felt as oppressive. Instead his presence became warm and enveloping. Like swaddling up in a blanket after getting doused in cold water.

“You shouldn’t worry, Fixit. I’m on your side here,” he said, coming closer and resting a hand on her head, “I’ll make sure the weather is always in your favor. I’ll make sure you always have enough fish to eat comfortably. I’ll make sure your boat never sinks or needs repairs. All I ask in return is that you follow me. I think that’s a fair deal, don’t you?”

Slowly, trembling in fear, Fixit nodded.

Yosef’s smile became hungry again. “So, Acolyte Fixit, shall we go east or west?”

There was a split second where she thought she would be forced to speak again. But there wasn’t. It wasn’t an order, wasn’t a command. He wasn’t making her do anything this time. Her next words would be her choice.

After a long, tense moment, she lifted her hand and pointed in the same direction he had been not that long ago.

“West it is.” Yosef hummed cheerfully, ruffling her hair and moving towards the winch.

At least one thing hadn’t changed, Fixit thought to herself.

At least west was still west.


End file.
